


More Than Air

by JupiterOrchid



Category: Outer Banks (TV)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Domestic, Friends to Lovers, Future Fic, Hurt/Comfort, Kiara moves shit along, M/M, Moving In Together, Nightmares, One Shot, Pining, but not too much
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:33:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24223594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JupiterOrchid/pseuds/JupiterOrchid
Summary: JJ gets out of prison. Pope is there to pick him up.
Relationships: JJ/Pope (Outer Banks)
Comments: 35
Kudos: 204





	More Than Air

The gate closes behind him, the clang of metal hitting metal still ringing in his ears. The air, to be quite honest, doesn’t smell any different out here than in there, but he takes a deep breath anyway, tells himself to think _freedom_ , anyway.

JJ holds a plastic bag with a watch, a bandana, three bracelets, and six bucks. It ziplocks, so that’s nice. His clothes don’t fit him right anymore and they smell musty.

The parking lot is empty except for a beat-up VW golf, an ugly shade of blue with rust already creeping up the doors. JJ didn’t really expect anyone to be there when he got out so, yeah, this tracks. Sand grits under his sneakers as he starts walking.

The door of the golf opens, and Pope steps out. JJ is glued in place all of a sudden, feels the momentum slap back into him, causing him to do a double take like a rabbit in a cartoon. And Pope, he looks good, like he filled out a little, like he showered the permanent grime of the Outer Banks off him and it stuck this time. JJ feels his breath stick in his throat, his mind whispering _Home_ , at him, making him shake his head like he’s trying to clear it.

“The hell are you doing here?” JJ smirks his signature smirk and sees Pope try to stay serious, try to keep his face blank, arms folded on his chest, making his biceps bulge. JJ sees him fail as his lips curve up.

“Get in, dipshit,” Pope nods at the car.

“Into that death trap?” JJ teases, but comes closer, feels elated when he is swept into a bear hug. He takes a deep breath and really thinks _freedom,_ really feels _freedom._ Pope claps him on the back, but then lets his palm just rest there on JJ’s back like he’s been missed.

“You graduate, yet?” he asks Pope once the car is moving.

“Only started second year,” Pope huffs a laugh and then grows serious: “you want to go back?”

“Back?” confusion colours JJ’s tone, bleeds into his features.

“To OBX,” Pope nods, keeps his eyes strictly on the road and JJ suddenly feels like it’s not just for safety. It never occurred to him that there were other options. Of course, he’s going back, where else would he go? OBX’s his home, it’s in his blood!

But when he opens his mouth, all that comes out is: “nah, it’s whatever,” and Pope smiles, for real this time, face split in a blinding grin and JJ feels like he would give that answer every time if only Pope kept smiling like that.

Pope drives in the opposite direction and JJ absolutely cannot care any less about where Pope is taking him.

***

The scholarship money is barely enough. Pope gets a job at a Starbucks, nothing too demanding, flexible hours and with JJ working at the meat market, they can afford an off campus one bedroom. The couple underneath them is always fighting and the lady across the hall always yells at someone in Polish. No one ever yells back so Pope reasons it’s over the phone; JJ jokes that she’s yelling at ghosts. The ceiling in the bedroom is a little water stained and the walls a little yellowed with time. There’s only one twin bed and a mattress pushed next to it on the floor but.

It’s _theirs,_ it’s _home_ and JJ falls asleep on the couch most nights, anyway, midnight infomercials playing in the background. On the screen, tanned, plastic-looking men and women are peddling knives, magic bullets, cheap-looking jewelry sets… filling up JJ’s dreams.

Some nights, Pope wrestles JJ into the twin bed, himself sprawling on the floor mattress. When JJ has a nightmare, whimpering and restless, Pope holds his hand as it hangs, outstretched towards him.

They live in a rhythm, move around one another like it’s natural, like they’ve had years of rehearsing under their belts. And maybe they had, maybe all these years at The Chateau, before everything blew up, were just dress rehearsal for this: Pope flipping four eggs on the burner, JJ putting two cups of coffee on the table, forks cluttering as they eat together every morning; JJ brushing his teeth in the evening while Pope flosses in front of him, face close to the mirror; JJ keeping the TV quiet while Pope studies, picking up the groceries when Pope only has energy to crawl to the couch and collapse there like a marionette with cut strings.

***

JJ has nobody else; Pope doesn’t see his parents.

One day, JJ hears the key turning in their door, hears Pope, voice raised on the phone: “you might not approve of my choices, but you’re going to have to learn to accept them.”

Pope walks into the kitchen, phone already in his pocket. JJ is sitting on the counter, legs dangling, a jar of peanut butter in his lap, spoon sticking out of his mouth.

“That’s gross, man,” Pope tells him, coming closer, “gimme some.”

JJ smiles, licks the spoon clean, sticks it in the jar and then into Pope’s mouth.

“Who was that?” he asks, letting the spoon go. Pope is so close, almost standing in between his legs. But JJ’s mind whispers: _closer._ If JJ wanted, he could reel him in with one movement. And JJ wants to, but he doesn’t. Instead he concentrates, watches Pope chew around the spoon thoughtfully, slowly.

“My dad,” Pope says, taking the spoon out of his mouth and scooping some more peanut butter from the jar. Pope’s not looking at him.

“All good?” JJ asks, anyway. He knows Pope won’t tell him the truth. Pope licks the spoon again, chewing on the sticky peanut butter in his mouth, as if buying himself more time. He drops the spoon back into the jar and leaves it there.

He looks at JJ, long and intense, as if he’s searching for something in his eyes. JJ doesn’t look away, can’t look away, like he’s hypnotized, like he’s drowning. And even if he wasn’t, he doesn’t want to. Wants to stay like that longer, possibly, forever. Pope puts his hand on the juncture of JJ’s neck and jaw, holds it there for a minute while JJ holds his breath.

“All good,” Pope says, so so quietly, as if he’s trying not to spook a wild animal and then he lets JJ go.

Something curls in the pit of JJ’s stomach, heavy and bitter, a little sad, but at least he can breathe again, so.

***

Kie visits at Christmas. Rolls into town like a hurricane, loud and happy and bubbly: the current that disrupts their undulating rhythm. She tells them about her trip to Alaska, about the turtles in the Baja California peninsula down in Mexico.

JJ lays back on the couch, eyes half-lidded, but he’s alert, watching carefully, watching if Pope is watching Kiara. Pope’s looking at her, sure, but not any more than usual, not any more than necessary. JJ keeps watching. Because last time, he missed it.

And maybe nothing came of it, in the end. Maybe Kie and Pope called it quits almost immediately. Maybe it’s been years. But last time, JJ missed it, and he’s afraid to miss it again.

The oven dings in the kitchen and Pope goes to retrieve the pizza.

“Hey,” Kiara pushes at JJ’s knee from where she’s sprawled on the floor. JJ looks at her, opens his eyes a little wider.

“Don’t worry,” she says, almost kindly, “he’s all yours.”

JJ doesn’t know if to laugh or cry, so he settles on a snort and an eyeroll.

“Whatchu on about?” he chuckles, because deny, deny, deny, that’s the moto.

“You think I’m a fool, boy?” Kie chuckles, turns her chin up at him, “y’all are proper domestic.”

She clinks her beer against his just as Pope rolls in with the pizza, has a look of amused curiosity on his face, says: “what are you guys laughing at?”

“Just at how domestic you two are,” Kie says without missing a beat. JJ’s beer goes down the wrong pipe and he sputter some of it onto Kie’s arm.

“Eeew,” Kiara scrunches her face up in disgust.

“Yeah,” Pope says, clapping JJ on the back to help him with the cough, “it’s pretty cozy.”

JJ feels like his face is the temperature of the surface of the sun, so he keeps his head down and concentrates on breathing.

***

Kiara stays on their couch for a week which means no midnight infomercials for JJ, no respite from the nightmares. They take turns with the bed and the floor, but Pope wakes up to JJ’s whimpering for the third night in a row and he’s done with this bullshit. He climbs into the twin bed, folds his long limbs around JJ’s frame. He slings one arm over JJ’s middle, pulling him in, closer, even though it’s hot as hell in the room. His other arm brackets JJ above his head and with the wall on his other side, that’s as close to protected as Pope can make him, there’s nothing else to give. Pope smiles when JJ settles.

The next morning, JJ wakes up to Pope’s face. It’s right there, in front of him and JJ doesn’t know what to do. Part of him feels trapped, the other, wants to stay there forever.

Pope stirs and JJ panics until the man in front of him opens his eyes, and smiles.

“Morning,” he greets like this is nothing, like this is every-day. His arm still brackets JJ’s head from above and Pope complains that it has fallen asleep as he tries moving it. JJ sits up, tries not to jostle Pope too much but their legs are entwined so it’s not so easy.

“You had a nightmare,” Pope says as if by-the-way and doesn’t move beyond trying to wake up his arm.

“Uh,” JJ’s mind is racing, “thanks man.”

“Anytime,” Pope replies, pats JJ’s thigh once, twice, and rolls out of bed.

That evening, Pope leans in their bedroom doorway, toothbrush dangling form his mouth. He looks at JJ who’s looking between the bed and the mattress like he’s never seen either before.

“What are you doing, man?” Pope takes the toothbrush out, fold one arm in front like he’s trying to stay serious.

“Uh,” JJ swings around, “nothing.”

“Just take the bed,” Pope sighs, something fond on his lips. JJ looks at his retrieving back, tries not to think about the muscles flexing under that t-shirt.

When Pope comes in, teeth brushed and ready for bed, he doesn’t take the mattress. He slides right next to JJ, slings one arm over his middle, brackets his head with the other.

“Goodnight, man,” he says as if this is normal, as if this is every-day and JJ can’t help but move closer, lean into Pope’s heat like it’s meant for him. He feels safe here. He feels calm.

“Goodnight,” he says back.

Pope doesn’t wake up that night. They sleep like that for the rest of the week.

***

On her last night there, JJ finds Kiara and Pope on the fire escape. She is sitting on the stairs; Pope is leaning on the railing. The window is open, and breeze is coming in, cool on JJ’s skin, sending a shiver down his spine.

“You better not be playing,” Kiara tells Pope like she’s warning him.

“Would I do that?” Pope says, sounding earnest.

“No,” Kiara agrees, “but you still better not.”

And JJ thinks he knows what kind of conversation he just walked in on except then Pope says: “He means everything to me.”

And he thinks maybe Kie said something in reply, but he can’t hear it behind the rush in his ears. JJ feels guilty, like he snuck up on a conversation he wasn’t meant to hear even though it wasn’t on purpose. He steps back, moves into the kitchen where he was trying to make something edible happen before giving up and going to look for Pope for help. Now he’s standing in front of the counter, frozen, something unwanted, uncomfortable, happy, blooming in his chest. It’s so painful he has to clutch at it, it makes him feel so light he has to hold on to the counter for fear of floating away.

“JJ?” he hears Pope’s voice behind him, but he can’t turn around. “Man, you ok?”

JJ can’t reply. Yes, he thinks; no, he thinks.

“Did you hear us?” Pope guesses and JJ clutches at his heart harder, clutches at the counter harder, his knuckles go white, his nails hurt in protest.

“I’m not taking it back,” Pope tells him with that new defiant streak Pope always had but just recently started to grow into, “I’m not taking any of it back.”

And JJ wants to tell him he doesn’t have to, but he can’t make his mouth work. He feels something warm and wet slide down his nose, it fall in a perfect drop onto the counter, splatters. JJ is shaking now with the effort of keeping it all in. Pope comes closer behind him, puts his hands on JJ’s arms.

“Did you hear me?” he says, turns JJ around, makes JJ let go of the counter but doesn’t let him float away, keeps him steady, tethered, “I’m not taking it back because it’s all true.”

And JJ can’t keep it back anymore. All these times he faked tears, how could he know that he could never fake the opposite, could never keep them form coming when they were real. JJ rushes forward, lets his fingers get lost in the fabric of Pope’s shirt, feels Pope’s arms close around him almost immediately. Great big sobs are wracking his whole body and all he’s feeling is relief.

“Shh,” Pope moves his hands in big circles across JJ’s back, “I’m here, I got you,” he whispers into JJ’s ear and JJ feels like a lost boy that’s been found.

When JJ’s sobs quiet down to shallow hiccups, Kiara materializes in the doorway.

“Alright, you losers,” she says loud enough for them not to miss her, “you done with the slobber-fest?”

JJ chuckles, lifts up his tear-stained, red-nosed face and looks up at Pope who’s beaming back down at him.

“Almost,” Pope says, not looking at her, not taking his eyes off of JJ’s. Pope leans forward, sneaks his hand up JJ’s neck, pulls him in, and kisses him, strong and caring. There is no room for interpretation.

Kiara cheers and hoots and wolf-whistles and JJ smiles into the kiss and kisses Pope right back.

***

He comes home from the meat market one day to a bed in the bedroom, a queen-sized new bed where the twin and the mattress used to be. Pope’s not around, he has afternoon classes, so JJ showers and then walks around the bed like a predator around a prey. It’s been made. New sheets soft and warm and smelling faintly of detergent. He touches it like it’s a foreign object, feels the bounce under his hand, sits on it gingerly before flopping back and laying flat, feet dangling. He crawls up the bed towards his side, by the wall, smiles at the fact that Pope pushed it all the way up to it, smiles at the fact that he knows him so well.

He probably falls asleep because he wakes up to fingers in his sleep-tousled hair.

“I see you found the bed,” Pope says, and it must be evening already because the light from the window falls in the flat, slanted line of a streetlamp, not the wide expanse of the shimmering sun. The room is only lit by that light from the outside and Pope’s face is half in shadow, but JJ doesn’t need to see him to know that he’s smiling.

“Kinda hard to miss,” he draws out, soft and sleepy. 

“It was getting kinda cramped on the twin,” Pope explains, as if explanation is needed.

“Your legs are a mile long,” JJ smirks up at him, eyes still half-lidded.

“Are you coming on to me?” Pope’s own smirk is oozing through his words.

“Maybe,” JJ says back, wraps his arms around Pope’s middle where he’s sitting next to him and then his smirk grows a bit more lewd, almost predatory: “should we christen it?”

And Pope chuckles, a full, ringing sound.

“We must,” he tells JJ seriously and then kisses him as if he needs it more than air. 

**Author's Note:**

> So I finished Outer Banks in a day and it's not art but it's not bad. JJ is art though. And Pope's the critic. 
> 
> Obviously, I don't care what happened between Kiara and Pope at the end. I care more about that group hug with Pope and his parents and JJ, so... 
> 
> Hope you liked it. Leave a comment?


End file.
